To see the face of immortality, you must leave the human worldbehind.This fire, these woods, the wind in the branches overhead,This is the true world, the Motherís realm,The seat of the immortal, the heart of our world.The Weaver spins a gilded web, and strong, but it is false,Ephemeral, when placed against the branches or the flames.Steel and glass give brave assurances, but only viewed against ourfragile flesh.Inside that flesh, inside ourselves, is immortality.